


Pieces of Myself

by PinkPenguinParade



Series: In Action How Like an Angel [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Headcanon, Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Language, Talking, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), angel nerdery, no really there is a lot of talking here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21138782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: Crowley levered himself off the floor and just straight-upslitheredover to Aziraphale.  "It's not hard, angel.  You just... loosen everything up."Aziraphale stared for a long moment. "My hips do not do that!" he finally squeaked. "I know my hips do not do that!""The hips are standard-issue. You just have to learn to use them." He demonstrated by slithering back across the room and splaying himself on the couch in a vastly un-Aziraphale way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T primarily for multiple instances of the fuck word. Title from "Conversation Piece" by Savatage, series title from Hamlet (with thanks to Ligeia for the suggestion)
> 
> Thanks to LastSaskatchewanPirate and LigeiaSt.Germaine for beta and abettment. Someday, Pirate, someday I will figure out how to actually link you here.
> 
> Also, have a story in which our characters are in the wrong bodies for a bunch of it, because apparently I enjoy hard things.

Crowley laughed uproariously, sliding off his throne onto the floor. 

Aziraphale found this annoying and deeply disconcerting, not least because Crowley was currently wearing _his_ body and he was not used to seeing it do these things from this angle. Or at all. "Well then you show me how it's to be done," he said waspishly.

(Crowley had mastered 'reserved' first thing. He'd even managed proper posture, for what had to be the first time in 6 millennia. He did, however, have a distressing tendency to smirk. They were working through it. The smirking was not nearly the hang-up Aziraphale was having, though.)

Crowley levered himself off the floor and just straight-up _slithered_ over to Aziraphale. "It's not hard, angel. You just... loosen everything up."

Aziraphale stared for a long moment. "My hips do not do that!" he finally squeaked. "I know my hips do not do that!"

"The hips are standard-issue. You just have to learn to use them." He demonstrated by slithering back across the room and splaying himself on the couch in a vastly un-Aziraphale way.

"Nothing about your corporation is standard issue," Aziraphale grumbled. He took a breath, adjusted the ridiculously tight jeans the demon insisted on wearing, and attempted to copy the slither. 

To his credit, Crowley did not fall off anything laughing this time. To his not-very-much credit, he did actively wince, covering his eyes with a hand. "All right... How much time have you spent on the distaff side of things?"

"I... beg your pardon?" 

"I'm asking if you've ever taken some time to be a girl."

"Ah. Not... not as such." The angel was aware that his infernal counterpart had a much looser view of gender than most demons and, for that matter, most angels and humans, but he hadn't much dabbled himself. He liked his corporation. It was comfortable and he knew how it fitted, and he had to admit privately that he rather preferred the male presentation if only because throughout history it invariably made his life easier. 

"Then this will probably be new to you." Crowley came over and stood behind him, placing his hands on the angel's denim-clad hips. "There's a thing they used to teach women in actual classes, about how to walk so that men are happy. It's not me, not quite, but if you can manage it, it should be close enough that nobody looks twice. Take a step forward, and swing your foot in just a little toward your other side."

Aziraphale did so, not certain whether he was blushing but absolutely sure that he would have been if wearing his own skin.

"Now again--the other foot. Swing it in a little so it's right in line with the one you just set down."

He did so, and felt his hips tilt under the demon's--under his _own_\--hands. 

Thousands of years of books, and he was beginning to feel that his language skills were woefully inadequate for this situation.

"Now take a few that way--each foot in a straight line with the previous one."

Aziraphale's ears were starting to burn as he stepped forward, feeling the warmth of those hands rocking with his hips for the first few steps until Crowley let go and he walked to the wall that way. 

He was uncomfortably reminded of the twee little commercials that showed a parent letting go as their child learned to ride a bike. 

He definitely needed to stop letting Crowley talk him into watching television. 

"Now come back to me, same way. A little faster. You're still hesitating."

"This doesn't feel very stable," he said, weaving his way back across the room.

"It's not supposed to feel stable, which is why people have spent the last hundred years having women do it in high heels. It's supposed to make straight men happy when they look at women."

"And they just... taught this to women? In classes?" 

"Oh yeah. For generations. Along with how to always have perfect makeup, why to never let a man see you without makeup even after a decade of marriage, an approved list of colors that you're allowed to wear based on your skin tone, the precise delineation of lipstick shade between 'demure' and 'tart', and so much more."

Aziraphale stopped moving. "That's... that's _diabolical!_ Your work, I suppose?"

"Not mine, angel. Nothing to do with me. When have you ever known me to deliberately make my life that much more difficult? Women have enough to deal with just with human messing about. I'm not lifting a finger on that front." Crowley grinned, wickedly, such a strange expression to see on the wrong face. "I look damn fine in a pair of heels, mind. But even I draw the line at inventing them."

Aziraphale turned and started walking again, one foot in front of the other. The pelvic roll was starting to hit a rhythm, but he couldn't tell from the inside whether it was anything like Crowley's walk. "Still feels dreadfully unstable," he said, wobbling a bit. 

"Think of it like riding a bicycle, angel. Stability comes from forward motion. Keep moving in a straight line and you'll be fine."

"This is never going to work."

"Do you have a better idea? One single better idea? Agnes, dotty old baggage that she was, handed us an answer on a silver platter."

"I do not have a better idea. It's just that this one--" he wobbled, and recovered-- "This one seems quite bad."

"Nah, you're actually doing well. You're just upset that I'm making you learn how to move properly. Do it again." Crowley left off for a moment, refilling both their wine glasses and raising his in something like a toast. "Cheers."

"How much longer do I need to do this?"

"Until you can keep moving without looking like the Angel of the Eastern Gate in bad drag."

"That might not be until you give me back my body."

Crowley took another sip. "Then this is going to be a very long night, because I don't think Heaven and Hell are planning to give us a lot of breathing room."

"Gabriel certainly looked very angry."

"Beelz wasn't super happy, if you'll recall. Neither was the boss." He swirled his glass a little. "Oh for the love of-- Not so fast! Pretend you're in the park and you don't have anywhere else to be and it's a lovely day."

"You just told me to go faster."

"Because you were hesitating. Now you're not hesitating, now you can slow down. Here." He picked up the other glass. "Come over here, like you're happy to just have a nice glass of wine. _Saunter._"

Aziraphale changed direction, trying to both speed up and slow down. "I am desperate to have a nice glass of wine. And then another one to keep it company."

"If we live through this we can add a whiskey and they can have a threesome."

"Crowley!"

"Eugh. I am justly punished by my own treachery. That did _not_ sound right in your voice."

***

"...My body should still hold enough of my, my _me_ that nobody flags you for an angel, angel. Angel," Crowley said. 

They were farther into their cups now, more or less comfortable on a sofa that Aziraphale had finally just given up and miracled into existence when faced with having to sit on Crowley's throne. 

"As long as you don't do any miracles or start doing that thing you do where you radiate Heavenly Love everywhere. Fuck, that'll send up a signal flare to the whole of Hell. Don't do that. In fact, no miracles from here on out." 

"No miracles for you either," Aziraphale said. "Not that I think you need telling. And what do you mean, 'that thing where I radiate Heavenly Love everywhere'?"

"Oh, you know. The thing. You see a sunset or a fluffy bunny and suddenly everyone around you is inexplicably happier? Wild flowers start blooming? That sort of thing?"

"I... _think_ you might be mistaking me for a Disney cartoon, dear. Are you sure you haven't had a little too much wine?"

"Oh. Oh, no. I cannot talk about Hell sober. I'll sober up after." He reached over and refreshed his glass. "Do not make me talk about Hell sober."

"So if I can't do the... fluffy bunny thing... which apparently I do sometimes... what is the appropriate response to Hell? I do not expect to run across many fluffy bunnies."

"Rage," Crowley said quietly into his glass, not looking up. "Rage, rage is always appropriate. Fear. Anger and rage."

Aziraphale reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "Crowley."

"You shouldn't have to go there." 

"Crowley. I have fear, and I am fairly certain I can at least manage a good anger. What they do to you has been enough to make me angry for many years."

"Hope," Crowley said. He stared into his glass for a moment more, and then drank the whole thing. "Hold your hope. Build around it so it can't be seen, wall it in if you need to, but never never never let go of it or they will eat you alive."

Hand still on the demon's arm, he squeezed a little, just a touch of _I am here_. "We will see this through. I will come back to you."

Crowley's head shot up, looking him straight in the eye with... with more fear than he'd ever seen. "You mean, back to Earth."

"I mean, I will come back to Earth," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley's breath whoofed out, eyes closing, for all the world as though he'd been hit. 

"Because you will be here," he continued. "Because you _will_ be coming back to me." 

Crowley's eyes opened again--the wrong eyes; incongruously, luminously blue--searching his face. 

He reached out his hand, barely skimming his knuckles down the side of Crowley's cheek. "I will come back to you. And you _will_ be coming back to me."

"What--" Crowley's voice broke. "What if I don't?"

"Then Heaven had better watch out, my dear." He had held a sword, in the Beginning. He had held it well. He had been told to protect, and when he wasn't allowed to protect them directly... well, he had found a way. And everyone forgot, and called him soft. 

He preferred to be soft. He loved, and he protected, in his own way. She had never released him from that mandate. 

But everyone seemed to have forgotten, so quickly, that She had entrusted him to hold a sword. 

Crowley was frozen for a few more seconds, leaning just slightly into his touch. "Angel, you--"

He shifted his hand so his thumb just rested on the demon's lips. "I am a bit drunk. You are... more than a bit drunk. And tomorrow is likely to be very trying. We don't have much time left to prepare."

"Hrrn," Crowley huffed, a broken chuckle, and Aziraphale withdrew his hand. "Bloody theatrical angel."

"You wouldn't have me any other way," he said, earning another huff of laughter. "We will talk about all this in detail, later and sober. But you will also need hope to get out of Heaven. And all I can offer you is that... is that you are the Hope I hold."

"...Right. Right. You... you've discovered a real talent for tossing a grenade and running, you know that?" Crowley shook himself out of his immobility, scrubbing his hands through white curls and down his face, trying to shift some of the alcohol out of his system. "What about Heaven? Anything I should know? Aside from Hope, which I suddenly seem to be swimming in?" 

Aziraphale stopped smiling. 

Reached for his glass. 

Swirled it, watching the dark liquid tumble and shift. "It's... it's cold. There's love. And light. Love, but... nobody loves _you."_ He tipped the wine back, reached over to refill it. "Me. Whatever. I'm... I'm that angel who has spent too much time on Earth. Nobody wants to get too close." He took the wine all at once, letting it slide down his throat. "Don't expect anyone to stand up for you." 

"Angel, are you-- You're..." Crowley said gently, and Aziraphale felt him shift.

And suddenly there was an arm around him, and it was warm and heavy and just lovely and he could feel himself shuddering, like saying the words had broken something and the jagged edges were grinding together, slicing him with every breath. 

"None of them see how beautiful it is down here," he said, and he found himself talking into Crowley's shoulder, face buried in his own waistcoat. "How lovely... how Magnificent the humans are. All they can see are the blemishes, the imperfections."

Something ruffled his hair, softly, and he realized it was Crowley's breath, and he'd wanted this for so long and he tried not to hate Heaven for ruining it. 

"Humans are just a way of... of _keeping score_," he said. "It's just so f-- ...um, it's just frankly discouraging."

"You're a grownup," Crowley said, his arm pulling the angel in tight. "You can say the fuck word."

Even Aziraphale wasn't sure if the breath that huffed out of him was a sob or a laugh. "Fucking Heaven only wants their fucking war and they're willing to burn down everything She created and I _can't stand it!_" He was almost screaming, face buried in Crowley's neck, and he'd either had too much wine or not nearly enough because he wanted to keep on doing it, possibly forever.

The arm around him tightened and he leaned in because suddenly the words just wouldn't stop.

"I don't... I don't like the other angels, much," he said, and it hurt to say it, oh, how it hurt, and it also felt so, so good. "They don't like me much, either. But I still love them-even when I'm afraid of them, even when they're being wretched to me, I still love them, and I don't even want to go back to Heaven and I miss it _so much_!"

Crowley's hand stilled on his back for a moment, then resumed rubbing circles. "They don't deserve you, angel." 

"Love isn't about what you _deserve_! Love is a--a gift. It's not about deserving it, it's about giving it whether or not someone deserves it. And Grace... Grace is just love, turned up. It's all about not deserving it. It's about getting what you don't deserve, and trying to be worthy even when you're not." 

He realized his hands were clenched in Crowley's sleeves, and tried to relax them. "If you deserve it, it's not Grace, it's just... just fucking _consequences_. Job well done! And Upstairs... they act like it's some precious _commodity_, like we'll run out if we use too much of it! And I just... I _can't_\--"

And then he ran out of words, and just wailed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was possibly only in his imagination that the forces of Heaven and Hell were breathing down their necks, but he didn't think so. Building additional protections against Hell here, at their only safe space, felt... urgent.
> 
> They would be out of this space--out of the only protected space they had; out of their bodies.
> 
> And, if Agnes was right, they would not be able to back each other up. Would not even be on the same plane. Would not know, possibly for hours or days, if something went wrong.

Eventually, Aziraphale had stopped howling at Heaven, at least anywhere but the privacy of his own mind. 

Eventually, Crowley had slept, slumping into the couch with a cherubic body and a demonic sprawl.

Aziraphale could feel, just at the edges, Crowley's body leaning toward sleep. But he didn't expect to sleep himself, so he didn't. 

He cleaned up the wine glasses. He took a look around the flat--he'd been here a handful of times, but never for so long without Crowley (or at least without a conscious Crowley), and he was pulled toward some well-intentioned snooping. 

The statue of angels... wrestling... earned a small smile out of him. The immaculate, unused kitchen was less of a surprise than it might have been.

The less said about the throne, the better. 

He paced around the flat, nervous energy building up, his hands fiddling with each other.

It was the third circuit when he found the thing he hadn't realized he'd been looking for: by the door, black on black, almost invisible, was one of Crowley's wards. 

Now that he'd found one, he found the others quickly--fairly decent protections against angels (with a single exception, woven carefully into the structure and sigils). Against demons there was nothing overt, merely alarms. 

Aziraphale nodded approval. Actively warding against your own side was... something that required either a lot of finesse, or a lot of bravado. He'd always chosen the first, personally; Crowley had clearly decided that it wasn't worth alerting his superiors by blowing anything up in their faces.

He studied the wards for a few minutes. He could update them, strengthen them, without too much difficulty... but he didn't have any of the traditional materials. 

...Except one. Blood could always be used, in a pinch, sacrifice standing in for foresight and proper preparation.

The immaculate kitchen had a set of immaculate knives. 

It was possibly only in his imagination that the forces of Heaven and Hell were breathing down their necks, but he didn't think so. Building additional protections against Hell here, at their only safe space, felt... urgent. 

Turns out, the immaculate knives were also very, very sharp.

Aziraphale hissed as he cut his--cut Crowley's--finger, promising himself he would miracle it back once all this was done, and drew some precise, very occultly significant symbols into the existing ward by the door. 

It flared for a moment, blue mixed with the flame-orange, and subsided. 

There was a grumble in the other room as Crowley shifted in his sleep. 

Aziraphale made short work of the others, each flaring to life as it took on its new duties. Each adding to the sense of protection and safety he felt in the flat. 

And each, oddly, adding to his anxiousness over their safety come morning. They would be out of this space--out of the only protected space they had; out of their bodies.

Quite possibly, he admitted to himself, out of their _minds_. 

And, if Agnes was right, they would not be able to back each other up. Would not even be on the same plane. 

Would not know, possibly for hours or days, if something went wrong.

...So very, very many things could go wrong.

It was an impulse, really. He hadn't meant anything to come of it, he was just... wondering. Thinking about how he might build a ward that would alert him--let him know, if something happened to Crowley. Some way to tie the demon to himself, to _feel_ him if things all went wrong.

He sketched on the counter with his still-bleeding finger--a curve there, a half-circle here, shifting the lines until it seemed right. It locked into place with that same dual glow: faint, pulsing.

Waiting.

Holding for the final activation.

Drawn in blood that, for the moment, was neither demon nor angel but somehow, inexplicably, both.

His mind said, _erase it. Don't test something this new, not now, not when you seem so close to maybe even surviving this._

His heart said, _study it. Remember it. Talk to Crowley about it when he wakes, but you might be on to something._

His arm, not listening to anyone else, slapped his hand right down on it.

He choked off a scream--it _burned_, pulsing through his hand and up his arm in waves that made him faintly nauseated. He yanked his hand back _too late too late_ and curled around it. "Ow. Ow OW."

Crowley came thundering around the corner, clearly no longer napping and just as clearly terrified and angry. "What happened? What was that?"

"Ow," Aziraphale said again, cradling his hand. "I'm sorry."

Crowley slowed, taking in the angel, the blood and the light pooling in his hand. "Aziraphale. What... what did you _do_?"

"I, um... I strengthened your wards," Aziraphale said.

He received a Look which said, quite clearly, _This does not explain the glowing and the bleeding and the screaming_, but for the moment Crowley merely waved his fingers.

All his normal wards sparked to life.

"Aaaugh," Aziraphale said, as his hand glowed brighter.

Crowley shot him another Look, but stepped to the door to inspect the wards first. "Good work," he said after a moment, almost grudgingly. "This bit... is that a _misdirection_ hex?"

"Yes," the angel said tightly. "It should--ah!--should keep any ethereal--or occult--activity in the flat or the rest of the building from _looking_ like it's happening here. I have--I, I _had_... some built into the shop. After, ah, Paris."

"And how did that work out?"

"Fewer reprimands for frivolous miracles. Two... ow... two notes from Gabriel along the lines of 'we can't prove it's you but stop it,' but fewer reprimands."

"You really are the cleverest person I know," Crowley said, and Aziraphale almost relaxed until the demon rounded on him and went on, "So how exactly is it that you managed to do _this_?"

"I wanted to see if I could design something that would. Um. letmeknowhowyouare."

"...Say again?"

"I wanted to know how you were! If it all goes... pear-shaped. I wanted to know," he said wretchedly. "I couldn't just... I couldn't bear the thought of waiting for you and not _knowing_!"

"Angel..."

"And I didn't really mean to activate it but I did and I'm sorry!"

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. Closed his eyes.

Took a breath. 

"I appreciate that you're worried, angel. I'm worried. But do you think you might have talked to me before activating a hex while _wearing my body?"_

"Well I could have used mine but it was asleep in the other room!"

"You could have waked me up. I would... oh. Oh, fuck me, it was talking about how my body still had some of _me_ in it, wasn't it? You weren't sure it would work if it wasn't done with my corporation." Crowley turned abruptly and strode out of the room. 

Aziraphale whimpered. His hand still hurt, although it was doing better and the sick-making waves had receded almost out of existence. But even at its worst it hadn't been as bad as watching his... his _best friend_ walk away like that, now, again, in the middle of everything.

He breathed a sigh of relief, though, when Crowley returned shortly with a wet cloth and a long-suffering sigh. "Give me your hand. I don't dare miracle anything until I've seen what you've done."

"No miracles." Aziraphale stretched out his hand. "Mind--ah!--mind the waistcoat."

Crowley gave him another look, narrow and desert-dry. "Angel," he said flatly, cupping the bleeding hand in his own, "I promise you that if I get any of my blood on your waistcoat, I will take care of it." He took the cloth in his other hand and started cleaning blood away.

It wasn't as bad as it had looked. The skin had mostly healed already, leaving only a few rapidly-closing scars.

The sigil still sat there, though; clearly imprinted in pink new scar tissue, glowing faintly in blue and flame.

Crowley stilled the motion of the cloth, pulling it away so he could look closer. "That's..." he started, and then took a breath, wiping off the last of the blood and dropping the cloth on the counter.

"...stupid," Aziraphale finished for him, miserably. "I know."

"I was going to say, remarkably compact sigil work for finger-doodling."

"...Oh."

"Also, I don't even understand some of what you've done here. We're going to have a talk when this is over with, and you are _going_ to show me what kind of protections you had on the shop, 'cause I never noticed any."

"Oh, good! I wondered sometimes if they really were well-hidden or if you were just being terribly polite."

"If you think back over that sentence I think you'll find the flaw."

"Still. It wouldn't do to have Gabriel drop by and see the shop covered in giant don't-look-here signs. One tries to be discreet."

"I tried to be discreet and you found mine practically first go," Crowley said. He was still holding the angel's hand. "Huh... I think it's fading. D'you think you built it wrong?"

Aziraphale peered down. "It does seem less... less _there_ than it did, doesn't it? But it shouldn't have activated at all if it wasn't built properly." He reached out a finger and gingerly laid it on his palm, testing. "There's power there, still. But it doesn't feel nearly what it did." He blew out a short breath. "Thank Hea--um. Hmm. Thank goodness, anyway. How... how does it feel, to you?"

Crowley ran his thumb across the fading sigil, gently, carefully. "Definitely something there. Feels... honestly it feels a bit like both of us. Not sure I'd notice it, if I wasn't looking." He rubbed his thumb over the skin a few more times while Aziraphale fought for calm. "Not sure I'll notice it at all in a few hours."

"Good. That's... good," Aziraphale said, and finally gathered the courage to pull back his hand.

Crowley held on. "Aziraphale...."

"_Stop,"_" he said. "Don't. Do not. Not right now."

The demon dropped his hand as if stung, blue eyes locking on his, searching his face. "Angel?"

"I cannot... not right now. If you don't say what I want you to, I will lose all hope. And you told me I need my hope."

"And what if I do say what you want? What then?"

"Then I'm terribly sorry, but I think it will be fluffy bunny time, my dear."

Crowley huffed out in what was almost, if seen in just the right light, laughter.

Aziraphale reached out and tapped the demon's nose. "Also I'm afraid I cannot take this seriously while you're wearing my face."

"It feels less like talking to a mirror than I would have guessed--it's definitely you in there, not me--but... same, actually." Crowley laughed, for real this time, a lot of the underlying pain of the last few minutes leaching out as they stepped back from this edge they'd been walking.

Later, there would be time to jump, Aziraphale told himself, laughing along with him. There had better be. 

It's not that he wasn't still afraid, of course. He just had... hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterwards, if Aziraphale found his steps heading toward the bookshop, well, that was hardly a surprise.
> 
> And there it stood--untouched, unburnt. Whole and beautiful and _home_.He walked up to the front door and gently laid his hand on it. "Hello," he said softly.
> 
> The latch clicked open.
> 
> "Was that you?"
> 
> "Not me, angel. Do you two need some time alone?"

In the end, naturally, he forgot all about attempting to walk like Crowley. In the end, it didn't matter, because nobody noticed anyway, and he was vastly relieved and a bit saddened to think that nobody else knew his demon well enough, cared about him enough, to even notice that it wasn't him.

It was all to the best, of course, but it still saddened him.

He couldn't feel the sigil anymore, and the most minute examination of his hand didn't yield any clues. He must, he thought, have built it wrong, after all. It certainly hadn't sent up any signals to him as he wandered out of Hell and into the park where Crowley waited for him, slouching un-angelically on their bench.

He was immensely happy to be back in his own body and also quite giddy with having survived as they went for a proper lunch where they didn't have to hide. 

Afterwards, Crowley checked on his Bentley, making extremely un-demonic cooing sounds at the old car while it radiated love back at him. 

Afterwards, if Aziraphale found his steps heading toward the bookshop, well, that was hardly a surprise, either.

And there it stood--untouched, unburnt. Whole and beautiful and _home_.

He walked up to the front door and gently laid his hand on it. "Hello," he said softly.

The latch clicked open.

"Was that you?"

"Not me, angel. Do you two need some time alone?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Maybe just a moment. But do come in."

Crowley slouched indulgently in the corner as Aziraphale took a slow walk along the shelves, running his finger down the wood. 

He stopped at the set of Just William books with a delighted grin. "Those are new!"

Crowley grinned. "Adam seems to have a sense of humor."

Aziraphale pulled one of them off the shelf to inspect it and whistled. "And in excellent condition."

"For the collection?"

"For the sale price, my dear. I'd have to look it up to be sure what it's worth right now, but... a complete set, in this condition?" He whistled again.

"Isn't avarice a sin, angel?"

Aziraphale looked mildly affronted. "I have a business to run."

"You don't _sell_ books!"

"I don't sell _my_ books. Oh, very well, and I don't sell books when I'm not in the mood to do so. But people give you very funny looks in the tax office if you continue to run a business for years with no income."

"Never seen you sell a book."

"You're usually here after hours, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Is this really the time to be questioning my business decisions? I love my books, but I also love helping people find books they love, or books they want, or books they need. It all works out as long as they keep their grubby little paws off MY books."

Crowley's eyes widened. So did his grin. "Yes, but you love everyone anyway."

"Not when someone wanders out of the sales area and tries to go after my personal library," the angel said ominously. "Besides, I rather thought we had some other things to discuss."

"Right. ...right," Crowley said, and stepped away, walking carefully around peering at everything, leaving Aziraphale standing somewhat bereft and befuddled.

He stood somewhat befuddled, in fact, while Crowley made a circuit of the entire shop, then came back with a sigh. "I am definitely not being terribly polite, angel."

"I... beg your pardon?"  
.  
"You're going to have to show them to me. Your wards," he clarified, when Aziraphale's befuddlement only increased.

"Oh. Oh!" Aziraphale said, the last few minutes clicking into place. He cleared his throat and sang--three clear, pure notes that were never produced by a strictly human throat.

Crowley staggered slightly, tossed just for a moment back to his heavenly-choir days as the shop was bathed in blue light from a dozen different directions, wards and sigils springing to life.

"Are you all right?" the angel asked.

"Peachy," Crowley said faintly, wobbling. He took off his sunglasses and whistled, low and appreciative. His second circuit of the shop was slower, inspecting each complex symbol and occasionally asking questions. 

A set of shelves near the back room door had a long line of script wrapped around itself on one side. "This one is... another misdirection hex?"

"Hmm, more an... accumulator, I should say. It soaks up any evil auras or energy and stores it here until I can clean it out."

The demon checked out the books on the shelf. "...You hate all these authors!"

"I'm hardly going to send the evil at books I love, Crowley. Besides, when my si--my _former_ side came by..." He shrugged, just slightly. "It gives a plausible explanation for a whiff of the demonic."

"Is _that_ why you keep bringing in Jeffrey Archer books?"

\--

Under the windows: "If I'm reading this right, it should keep people outside the shop from noticing anything ethereal happening inside the shop?"

"Or occult," Aziraphale added. "One doesn't want to have to check all the shades just to air one's feathers, after all."

"Quite," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale suspected him of mockery. 

\--

A small sigil near the floorboards, repeated around the shop: "Mice?" Crowley asked.

"_Mice_," Aziraphale said darkly. 

Crowley did not ask again.

\--

On the counter: "Did you seriously build a hex to keep your cocoa warm?"

"I don't like cold cocoa, so yes I did. I'm afraid it only works on that spot on the counter, though."

Crowley looked at it for a moment, and then had to ask. "Did the mug rings come from always putting it down there, or did you choose where to build it by looking at the rings?"

"...Was there something else you wanted to see?"

\--

By the door: "Okay, the floor is pretty standard," Crowley said. "I mean, very well done, you've got some elegant structure here, but unless I'm missing something that one's pretty solidly 'no demons'--"

"Except you, of course, dear!"

"--except me, right, and some alerts for angels but no outright aggression, and there's the same general misdirection hex you built in at mine." He looked at it a moment more, and then turned his attention up to the looping, swooping sigil on the back of the door. "I'm having more trouble with this one, though. I've got to be missing some context because the bits I can work out don't make any sense."

"That one helps... well, keep out the riff-raff, as they say."

"Thought your lot were all about riff-raff."

"Not ones that mean harm, thank you. People with ill intent don't generally find their way in. Almost never do they find their way in twice." Aziraphale huffed. "And I thought we were stopping the 'your lot' thing."

"...That's fair. Mea culpa," Crowley said, then leaned in and traced a finger through part of it. "And what about this?"

"Oh, that was _very_ interesting to work in--took me most of a month! I didn't think I'd be able to tie it all together, but it's just so elegant to have it more compact and that way it works in tandem--"

"No, what does it DO? I can just about make out 'need' but I cannot suss the rest of it."

"Oh, yes. If someone needs, really _needs_ to find the bookshop, they will. Right here--" he traced a swirling, swooping line of script--" a general need for peace, books, solitude, will bring someone in during open hours, and here--" a more complex set, weaving in among the rest like a mad calligrapher's dream-- "for more... desperate situations."

"Won't that let people in while you're closed?"

"Well, yes. That's rather the point," he said, surprised. "It doesn't happen as often as you might think, maybe once every year or two. I haven't gotten the knack of any real range on it, you see, so it really only activates once someone is within about two blocks."

Crowley was staring at him. "But what if you're not here?"

"Then the shop will keep them until it's safe for them to leave, or until I get back home and can help them." Aziraphale was using his patient voice again. "I am part of a community here, and it's important to me that my shop be a refuge. Mostly it's the occasional runaway, and I help where I can. Sometimes someone is in more immediate danger."

Crowley fell silent for a moment, staring at the ward behind the door. When he spoke, it was slowly, low. "Back in... the late forties, I think it was? During one of those times when there were the raids and crackdowns and awful prisons and it was so, so dangerous to be queer... We'd had dinner and way too much alcohol, and when we got back to the shop there were three people here, waiting for you. They'd been roughed up, and you took care of them...." He looked up, eyes shining gold in reflected sigil light. "I always thought you'd given one of them a key!"

"A key? Oh, no. No, keys are terribly dangerous. Absolutely anyone could use a key! It could be dropped, or stolen, or confiscated in one of those terrible raids. No, this was much safer. Lolly and Neville and Todd made it in because they needed to, and their attackers did not."

A slow grin started creeping across Crowley's lips. "So, angel... how many people knew to run to within two blocks of here?"

"Some times were more dangerous than others. For a while there I may have acquired a certain... reputation." He shook his head. "But sometimes it was the only way I could help my poor dears."

"You... really love them, don't you?"

Aziraphale sighed and shrugged out of his cream jacket, hanging it up neatly in the corner. "Of course I do. I've been watching them for six millennia. I was assigned to protect them. Although I'm afraid I haven't done a terribly good job of it." He sighed again, moving toward his small kitchen. "If you've done looking at my wards for now, I am perishing for a cuppa. One for you?"

"Oh yes," Crowley said. "How do you, um... How do you hide them back?"

Aziraphale snapped his fingers as he was filling the kettle.

The room went dark, no longer lit in blue lines, and Crowley realized they'd talked the sun down. He wandered to the back room, calling, "You are absolutely helping me re-ward the flat at some point soon. I didn't even know you could do some of those things." 

"Oh, I have some ideas about that--think what we could accomplish working together!" said Aziraphale as he came back out of the kitchen, leaving the sound of the kettle heating up behind him. 

"Speaking of, how's the hand?" Crowley toed off his shoes and slouched onto the sofa.

"Not a trace I can find, really. Must have built it wrong after all. Although I probably ought to be asking you the same question. How's _your_ hand?" 

Crowley considered it for a moment. "No scarring. And I can't feel anything. Whatever you did, it doesn't seem to still be _here_."

"Hmm," said Aziraphale, leaning against the back of the sofa.

"Just... hmm?" Crowley said after a moment.

"Hmm? Oh. Well, I'm glad. I'd have been sorry to leave you with a mark on your corporation. It would have been discourteous."

"...and you're not going to mess about with it again, right?"

"Hmm," said Aziraphale.

"_Right_, angel?" Crowley said again, twisting to look up at the angel in question.

"Well unless you're planning to loan me your corporation again I shouldn't think it would even be possible."

"...and you're not going to mess about with it again, _right_?"

"Oh, for Hea--hmm. I'm still interested in the _concept_, Crowley. I'd quite like to know what went wrong."

"_Aziraphale_...."

"But as we don't actually have a record of it to compare, I would be starting from first principles, probably without the very distracting prospect of Hell in the morning, and definitely without too much wine beforehand, so I, Aziraphale, promise you, the demon Crowley, that at the very least I will _call_ you first before activating any hex, sign, ward, or sigil that affects you or draws upon your essence." Light flared, briefly, and the air got heavier for a moment, pressing down on both of them. "Will that do?"

Crowley stared at him in utter shock. "You just... did you just _geas yourself_ to avoid promising not to do it again? You... You did. You are completely mad."

"And free to experiment with interesting wardcrafting without you breathing over my shoulder, thank you." The kettle beeped and he straightened. "Anything particular you were thinking of tonight? I have a nice assam I'm planning for myself, but I also have in some lovely oolong and jasmine and a quite bright Earl Grey."

"Assam is fine. You are still utterly barmy!" Crowley called after him as the angel went into the small kitchen and started clanking things.

"Oh, no question," Aziraphale said cheerfully. 

He returned in a moment bearing a tray with teapot and cups, a small creamer and the sugar pot, and a plate of biscuits; set it down on the small table and removed his shoes as well before settling onto the couch. "That will want a few minutes to steep," he said, as Crowley started to reach for the pot.

"Going the long way today?"

"If I miracle the tea I always miss some of the notes. And for once, in this last week, we're not in a hurry over anything and we can _talk_."

"About how much you could have just promised not to do it again?"

"I do believe we've covered that, my dear. But we have another conversation that is somewhat overdue," he said, and watched Crowley expectantly. 

Crowley watched back with some bafflement.

"Oh, for the love of--" Aziraphale said, grabbed Crowley by his ridiculous mesh tie, and yanked the demon forward onto his lips. 

Crowley squawked at getting an unexpected faceful of angel, his hands waving vaguely and grasping at air.

His lips, though, ignored all of that and recovered quickly. Six thousand years and they were not going to miss a moment of this.

Aziraphale pulled away after a moment, almost panting. "Sorry, dear. Is this alright? I should have spoken first but I was having a bit of trouble."

Crowley's eyes were molten gold for just a moment, searching his face, _is it real is it right is it you am I dreaming_\--and then he shook himself slightly. "Nah, I'm good," he said, and dove back in for Aziraphale's mouth. 

His hands seemed to have figured themselves out, finally; one drove itself up into platinum curls, the other wrapped around Aziraphale's back and pulled him close until the angel was kneeling in his lap, straddling his thighs, just _devouring_ him.

Aziraphale had dropped the tie and had both of his hands on Crowley's face, cradling him like something priceless, snogging him like the world was about to end (or, more precisely, like it just hadn't). "Wanted... wanted this... for so so long," he murmured into the warmth of that mouth.

"Still can't... _believe_... you chose me... over Heaven," Crowley replied.

Aziraphale froze for a second, then pulled away. "Ah."

Crowley whined, back in his throat.

"About that." He leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the demon's. "I didn't."

"You did, I was totally there. Can we do the kissing again? I like the kissing."

"I didn't choose you. I love you and you gave me everything, all the strength I needed, but I didn't choose you. I chose them." He laughed, an almost broken sound. "I couldn't have done it without you. I wouldn't have dared. But I didn't choose you."

"...did you just say you loved me?"

"I'm confessing my betrayal in choosing humans over you and _that's_ what you home in on?"

"You did. You just said you loved me. What happened to going too fast?"

"They would have killed you if they found out! I couldn't let that happen! Do you have any idea how hard it was holding back all those years, those _centuries_\--"

Crowley laughed out loud, a cynical 'Ha!' that made Aziraphale smile just for the familiarity of it. "No, I have no idea how it feels to be in love with someone for millennia and not be able to say anything for fear of ruining it all. Totally oblivious, me."

Aziraphale shifted, burying his head in Crowley's shoulder. "Uriel called you my 'boyfriend', like it was something tawdry and dirty and awful and all I wanted was for it to be true."

"If you're interviewing candidates I can offer you some _very_ impressive references."

"You're not taking this seriously. You deserved better and I let you down."

Crowley rubbed his hand down the angel's back and took a breath. "So you're confessing that you betrayed me by loving me for ages, snogging me senseless, wanting me and standing with me at the end of the world against the assembled forces of Heaven and Hell, but that you love humans an awful lot, too. And for my part, my only consolation is a lapful of angel, the aforementioned snogging, the promise of _more_ snogging, possibly for eternity and maybe, judging by that wiggle of your hips earlier, escalating to a proper shagging at some point, and I just have to live with the disappointment of being able to parade you blatantly in front of Heaven and say you're mine now?"

"...Hip wiggle?" Aziraphale said after a moment.

"In case you thought I didn't notice."

"_I_ didn't notice!" He thought for a moment back over the last few minutes, ignoring the refrain of _more more now now kiss him now more now_ that had suddenly started running on a loop under his thoughts. "...Hmm. No. Didn't notice. Was it..." he put his hands on Crowley's shoulders and shifted his hips, grinding down into denim-clad thighs.

"Nnngh," Crowley said with feeling, hooking a finger under an unfashionable bowtie to pull Aziraphale forward into a short kiss. "It was not, but please keep doing that if you'd like."

He let go of Crowley's shoulders, intent on taking hold of his face again, and stopped.

Watched his hands, as they shook.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley took hold of his wrists, pressed a kiss into each palm. It filled his hands with fire and he couldn't stop himself from wanting more.

"I... Sorry, dear. Rather a lot has happened recently. I think some part of me still feels you're... well. Forbidden fruit."

"We don't have to--"

"No. But I want to. I want you, and I could never tell you because of what they would do."

"...You know this isn't _over,_ right?" Crowley's voice... that hard anger was familiar, but he'd never before heard that soft, tremulous break underneath it, and it was heartbreaking.

"I know. I know it's not. Heaven is extremely possessive, and forgiveness went out of fashion quite some time ago. But... from a certain point of view, the worst has already happened. They know that we're friends. They think we're lovers. We're already sentenced to death. I fail to see how finally kissing you will make things _worse_. What will they do to us, death plus thirty days in the nick?"

Crowley almost laughed and Aziraphale almost smiled, trembling hands clenching around his demon's, grasping at that warmth. "I can't say this won't be difficult, my dear. I'm afraid I feel a bit adrift."

"What do you need, angel? What do you want? Anything I can do. Anything."

"Right now?" He consciously relaxed his hands and pulled them free, brought them back up to Crowley's face, and leaned in. "Just..." he said, and brushed their lips together. "...stay here with me, tonight? I don't want to be alone." He brought their lips together again. 

"Well it's a hardship, but I think I can manage," Crowley said, grinning around the angel's mouth. "Also I really do like the kissing."

"Silly serpent," Aziraphale said fondly, and sat back. "I should definitely thank Adam for saving my bookshop, you know. I've had _thoughts_ about kissing you on this couch, and it's nice to finally get to do so." 

"I have also had these thoughts," Crowley said. "Any of these thoughts in future are definitely things that you should share with me."

"I will," he said happily. "Oh! But the tea will be getting cold!" 

"Let it." Crowley caught him as he tried to turn toward the tea tray. "I will make you more. Right now I like you right where you are."

Aziraphale smiled, joy and happiness just bubbling up through him, full of more than he could quite contain, and he _wiggled._

Crowley groaned, flopped himself back into the cushions. "_That,_ angel. That is the fluffy-bunny thing. We should check the carpet for wildflowers." He sat back up to put an arm around his angel before he could do anything as silly as move. "...In a little bit. Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An amazing amount of my headcanon went into (and for that matter came out of) writing this fic and the follow-up. Hope you enjoyed, and I will hopefully be finished with story two before too long!

**Author's Note:**

> Story is finished, line editing is still going on. Will be posting as time and the pesky cat allow.
> 
> This is what happens when I start noodling around with a flashback in a separate window to get things just right and all my headcanons come crashing out.
> 
> I may not always respond to all comments, but they're all read and loved. <3


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